


The Sword

by Baby_Spinach



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archangels, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Gen, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Possession, Season/Series 14 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-29 18:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baby_Spinach/pseuds/Baby_Spinach
Summary: The First Archangel's eons of disciplined, cultivated acquiescence are immediately shattered upon his possession of Dean Winchester.





	The Sword

"What if... you had your Sword?"

Those simple words strike a sudden bolt through Michael's body, now hemorrhaging and broken by way of the half-breed brat. Waves of searing aftershocks continue to course through his meat suit's every cell, yet his attention has been fully captured by the desperate, pleading human in front of him.

"I am your Sword. Your perfect vessel. With me, you'd be stronger than you've ever been."

Dean Winchester takes a step toward Michael. Practically radiating vulnerability and naked fear, the man is little more than an open wound. Such tragic little creatures, forced to beg and sacrifice for even a vestige of true strength and power, the power that naturally infuses Michael's very being in limitless quantities.

But this tragic little creature has also surprised him. Michael had initially been certain that his destined vessel of another world, a hardened hunter, would never think to consent to him. And Michael had long grown accustomed to deprivation--deprivation of his birthright, his father's favor, even the barest acknowledgement of his billions of years of unwavering loyalty. Michael had accepted this without complaint; it was, after all, his role to play, etched and ingrained into the celestial language of his being. The First Angel--dutiful, strength incarnate, the eternally loyal.

Yet here stands his promised prize, the one possession that is his, and his alone, to claim. It's too good to be true, too jarringly disparate from the long-established patterns of his unspeakably vast lifespan.

Michael considers it all within a single millisecond. His face remains stony and impassive, betraying nothing.

"Oh, I know what you are," Michael says. His vessel's damaged heart beats at a stuttering yet quickened pace, sustained only by the archangel's presence. Upon his departure, the vessel and its original occupant will perish within seconds.

"If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?" There is a steel-hard edge to the man's voice: determination, will, a reckless lack of self-regard. Nothing less would be worthy of the Michael Sword, the perfect complement to its true wielder.

"We'd have a chance.” Unlike his late brother, sweet words and empty promises were never part of his arsenal.

As Dean briefly turns around to appeal to this world’s impotent and mooning version of Castiel, Michael surreptitiously studies the body that will soon be his. It radiates white-hot, earsplitting waves of divine resonance against the angel’s consciousness, a beacon of blinding light in a sea of mundane greys. The vessel’s penetrating cries to be united with Michael had indeed played a role in his attempted killing of him, if only to silence the cacophony.

But now, the knowledge that he may actually be able claim his prize has somehow changed that resonance into something sweeter, a piercingly vivid song of unity and longing. Michael allows himself to truly embrace it, and its rich reverberations almost rattle him loose from his current ruined meat suit. A thoroughly new feeling of covetous anticipation rises up within him.

An eternity seems to pass before Dean finally utters that one, all-important word.

Michael even agrees to cede control, at least initially. It is a minuscule expense for an eternity with his perfect vessel.

*

The mere handful of vessels that Michael had claimed in the past, always out of pure necessity, had been little more than prisons. Their weak, breakable flesh had dampened and muffled his senses, painfully constricting the vast expanse of his consciousness and perception into a flawed, limited mortal body. Their insides had grated and chafed against him, never truly integrating with the unique contours of his infinitely complex celestial form.

But to never know true harmony with a once-promised vessel was merely another deprivation, the eternal constant that Michael had been created to accept without resentment. When the Apocalypse bell finally rang its last, Raphael's bloodline had provided a perfectly adequate host for Michael's destined purpose, the fulfillment of his most pivotal role.

And as he'd cradled his little brother's gently dissipating fragments of grace between borrowed fingers, the latter's meat suit torn open and charred beyond recognition, he'd sustained himself as always with one irrefutable truth--no matter the depths of his pain, his sacrifice, Michael was the loyal, dutiful son. And that was enough.

The First Archangel's eons of disciplined, cultivated acquiescence are immediately shattered upon his possession of Dean Winchester.

*

Michael instinctively braces for the familiar sensation of forced confinement that never comes. There's no constriction, no muddy wall of stinking human flesh through which he is forced to experience the outside world. He is utterly unfettered, the full force of his presence freed rather than smothered.

The body he has possessed is not some foreign entity. It is him. Each living cell sculpted and hand-carved, each capillary a precisely-plotted branch of a vast, intricate network designed solely for Michael and no other. The strong, steady heart pumps within his vessel's--no, his--chest. For the first time, he is not observing his claimed body's natural processes; they are inseparable from his own.

His True Vessel is indeed perfect, every molecule beautifully aligned, every atom in its proper place. His angelic grace flows smoothly along multitudes of microscopic avenues throughout his body, a delicate latticework of infinite divine potential.

Despite taking physical form, Michael has somehow maintained his seamless unity with the cosmic fabric of the universe; his celestial perceptions reign as freely as they would in his incorporeal state.  The ambiance of modern human society--footsteps, traffic, the gentle fizzle of fluorescents--plays across his vision in vibrant wavelengths incomprehensible to mortal eyes. A hundred miles westward, a butterfly flaps its delicate wings. A mere ten lightyears away, a mid-sized star collapses into a white-hot supernova.

He has flown his new body into the middle of some nameless mid-sized town, sporting an outfit he’d once observed behind a store window on one of his rare visits to Earth. It has either been decades or centuries since then, but Michael remembers quite liking the ensemble in an unusually indulgent moment of personal taste. And if the acquisition of his long-awaited Sword didn’t merit another rare moment of indulgence, nothing else possibly could.

The angel takes his first step. He blinks his fetching hazel eyes experimentally, just once. He gently clenches and unclenches his fingers, and even this minuscule surge of blood and muscle resonates with his celestial core in perfect harmony.

He can’t help the rush of self-satisfaction and contentment, despite a small yet insistent knocking that has begun to drum a rhythm inside his head. _You are mine,_ Michael says to the source of the knocking. And he will never again settle for less.

The hazel eyes briefly flicker a cold, luminous blue.

*

The honeymoon phase, as humans would refer to it, is a few million years too short. The knocking in Michael’s head only intensifies in the following days and weeks, slowly but steadily gaining strength by minuscule increments. The noise itself doesn’t hinder him in the slightest, though its presence occupies a permanent corner of the archangel’s otherwise serene, purposeful thoughts. Michael almost admires his prisoner’s tenacity; to struggle so furiously against an insurmountably powerful entity such as himself is worth at least some measure of praise.

Yet beneath the angel’s mocking contempt for Dean Winchester lies a hard, smoldering coal of genuine anger. Michael can’t deny the inherent insult to his station that this small, broken human’s struggle implies, that he is even considering the possibility of regaining control from the most powerful archangel in creation.

Each of his previous vessels had unconditionally surrendered to him at one point or another. Regardless of their satisfaction with the arrangement after that first, essential “yes,” they’d instinctively recognized the futility of a power struggle and quietly retreated into the depths of their own subconscious, leaving their divine occupant to his own devices.

This current state of affairs, Michael finds, is far less convenient in comparison.

But to respond with furious retribution would only lend credibility to the human’s pitiful efforts, so Michael chooses to continue to ignore the feeble rhythm. He assures himself that his unruly prisoner will eventually and inevitably succumb to exhaustion and despair. No mortal can struggle forever.

*

One night, against all odds, Dean Winchester surfaces.

As Michael reaches to adjust his bow tie in the mirror, a sudden rush of searing will ascends through the layers of his consciousness like a magma flare. His reflected face suddenly crumples in pain and exertion, regarding him with a fiercely impassioned gaze that is assuredly not his own.

“Get. Out,” Dean snarls through tightly gritted teeth. The sheer effort mustered for those two measly words is etched all over the trembling lines of strain on his face.

Despite this unsettling revelation of his prisoner’s true strength, Michael’s expression is composed and serene. To betray otherwise would only further embolden the surprisingly troublesome human.

“I don’t think so,” he says to the exhausted but furious man opposite him.

“You can’t--”

“Oh, but I can. Because, you see…”

A web of cracks spreads across the glass, rooted in the signet ring on Michael’s right hand.

“… I own you. So relax, and enjoy the ride.”

Dean sinks back down through Michael’s layers of consciousness, unable to maintain his strenuous footing any longer. The angel’s face in the broken mirror is once more his own.

Despite this temporary victory, Michael feels stirrings of doubt and unease for the first time he can remember.

_This will not do. This will not do at all._

*

Michael’s ultimate choice distresses him more than he’d ever admit. The very thought of leaving his perfect vessel, even temporarily, invariably provokes an instinctive wave of dread. Unlike with former hosts, who’d all fit like coarse, poorly-tailored suits he’d been eager to discard at the first opportunity, departing this one would be akin to him peeling away his own skin.

But the alternative is far less palatable. It may only be a matter of time before the irritating human resurfaces again, and Michael cannot abide even the possibility of a relapse. He will not tolerate less than his rightful due, not here, not now. After all, this is his perfect vessel, his only true inheritance. His eternal occupancy of it must be seamless, utterly free of conflict or struggle.

And if attaining this ideal necessitated a temporary exodus, so be it.

As the three clueless hunters mill about on the other side of the double doors, lured there to retrieve their precious missing hunter, Michael regretfully departs Dean Winchester’s body. There is a uniquely unnatural quality to the separation that sickens him to the core. As he disengages from his vessel, more cautiously and gingerly than he’s ever done so before, parts of him almost seem to cling and resist the departure.

Michael’s disembodied essence briefly lingers over the following scene, hovering safely beyond human perception. He watches Dean stumble and collapse against his brother’s hesitant arms. His body’s blinding resonance is as vivid as ever, taunting and begging Michael in equal measure to return to where he truly belongs.

With no small amount of resentment, Michael leaves the humans to their soppy little reunion.

 _We’ll be reunited soon,_ he promises. _And when the time comes, you will fully surrender yourself to me._

*

The woman is tall and statuesque, with pleasant and dignified features. Her lineage had diverged from the true bloodline almost fifteen millennia ago, but that is more than enough. Her presence gently resonates with Michael’s celestial consciousness like the crystalline echoes of a tuning fork, weak but sufficient. She will last at least a few months before the blazing force of his presence incinerates her insides past any further viability.

Michael simply tells her the truth of his name and status, having infiltrated her dreams wearing Dean’s pretty face and warm smile. Like all humans, she submits easily to his request. After all, what ordinary mortal wouldn’t leap at the chance to serve an agent of the divine, if only to avoid possible damnation upon refusal?

“Yes,” she breathes. Her loose, wavy black hair tumbles down her shoulders, and her dark eyes swim with foolish, rapturous gratitude.

Michael flows into her body.

The stifling suffocation is far worse than he remembers, overwhelmingly so. Michael nearly roars aloud as the world regresses into dull, muffled fragments behind his newest prison of flesh, crushing him once more into a hideously stunted little receptacle. It’s too small, too colorless, intolerable--

A millisecond passes.

Michael straightens his vessel’s back and brushes away a sheaf of glossy black hair, the tumult of emotions safely reined in. His strategy is sound. He is certain of it. And in the meantime, he will carry on with his work.

Though his grace flows sluggish and halting along his meat suit’s rather twisted, obstructed pathways, he has little trouble reaching out to his own monstrous creations. Brief snapshots flit across his perception as he cycles through hundreds of sets of eyes. Michael then projects a singular command.

_Bring me more of your kind._

*

Many long months later, when Michael finally senses Dean’s presence again atop his skyline view at Hitomi Plaza, he almost loathes himself for the instinctive jolt of childlike delight that courses through him. He has missed his Sword far more than his pride would ever allow him to admit.

But he mustn’t rush into the final phase. As untold millennia of experience have taught him, the crucial moments before victory are also the most perilous.

The other three are already dispatched, crumpled helplessly onto the floor, before their ace in the hole finally emerges.

Dean swings at him from behind. Michael turns and blocks a spear shaft with his forearm. They immediately break apart and square off against each other.

Even as Dean Winchester regards him with utmost loathing, his presence blazes as vibrantly as ever, radiating an irresistible magnetic pull that practically begs for the return of its rightful master. Michael need only give in to this flowing stream of energy, but he cannot do so just yet.

As planned, Dean has acquired the undersized urchin’s special weapon. Its mysterious properties repel Michael’s telekinesis, but he feels exhilaration rather than fear over the potentially lethal threat.

“You got it,” Michael says to his fiercely determined opponent.

“I sure did,” Dean growls. The fire of encroaching victory burns in his eyes. Michael can hardly wait to snuff it out.

The human holds his ground impressively, but Michael soon loses patience. He quickly knocks Dean askance and follows up with an iron grip to his throat. His boots part company with the ground.

The human’s relentless struggling has already begun to irritate him again.

“So glad you could make it tonight,” Michael says, his voice mocking and contemptuous. Dean sputters and chokes, his veins popping. The sight pleases him. “I know you hate me, Dean. But don’t forget, you let me in.”

Michael drops him with a hard crash.

“Now you get to see it. Everything your mistake will make possible. All the bloodshed, all the death, all on you.”

Dean rolls to his feet faster than Michael expects. In a whirl of motion, a sharp slash of pain rips across his outstretched arm. He recoils, clutching the site of injury.

“Trust me,” taunts Dean's gravelly timbre, spear returned to his hands. “That’s going to leave a scar.” He advances forward.

Michael takes an equivalent step back. He closely observes the human’s expression and finds exactly what he is looking for. Yes, Dean truly thinks he is going to win.

It is time.

Michael fully gives in to his Sword’s piercing melody and allows his essence to finally be pulled back to where it belongs.

*

Dean’s exquisite maelstrom of shock, despair, fear, and confusion disorients him just long enough for Michael to stow him away into a carefully manufactured prison, a construct he’d built in fragments during his frequent excursions into Dean’s mind.

It works, as Michael knew it would. His newly vulnerable prisoner instantly adapts to his fresh set of memories. The loop begins to run, and Michael stays for long enough to watch through the first few cycles. He admires his handiwork with a cold, detached satisfaction and no small amount of relief. Dean is as fallible and human as the rest of them after all.

_Sweet dreams, Dean. I really am far too kind to you._

Dean looks up from behind the bar as if he hears something, but then promptly returns to his perpetually regenerating limes. A gently contented smile rests on his lips as it never would in reality.

With his rightful host’s original occupant taken care of, Michael resurfaces.

A millisecond has passed.

He looks down, briefly considers the troublesome weapon in his hands, and snaps it apart with a meaty crack. Blue sparks explode and fizzle out from the splintered ends, their strange magic broken forever.

Michael turns around to face Dean’s foolish companions. His eyes blaze bright with victory.

*

Michael has been beaten.

Though the admission sets his insides raging with fury and shame, its truth is undeniable. For the first time in existence, God's first son, the General of Heaven, has been unquestionably defeated.

He’d deeply underestimated Dean and the small group of miscreants he called family, but that miscalculation had hardly been his only failing. Michael had been dazzled by the gleaming prize of his Sword, the precious reward once denied to him, and its acquisition had rendered him complacent. He’d felt invincible, assured, certain that nothing in this world or any other could conceivably pose a threat to him. And he’d wasted time gloating, a critical error in judgement unworthy of his station.

The archangel considers the impassable metallic door before him. It is thickly pockmarked with aimless dents and scratches from his countless earlier hours of manic, unthinking rage, but there is no sign of damage beyond the superficial.

How ironic, to finally acquire his perfect vessel only to be trapped helplessly within it. It is a cosmic joke almost worthy of Father.

Michael’s lip curls at the thought of Him. No, he did not come this far just to accept defeat in the filthy basement of some mere human’s mind. He has vital work to do, and well-deserved retribution to deliver.

He will eschew sentimentality for pragmatism, as he should have from the beginning, and abandon the foolishly romantic ideal of coexistence with his perfect vessel. This time, Michael will pin the human down and methodically tear away at his consciousness until he is nothing but a formless smear of maddened agony dripping from Michael’s fingers. He won’t just obliterate his resistance, but the entirety of him, effectively crushing even the possibility of another ousting. Merciless and absolute--his old but reliable strategy.

Michael almost smiles in anticipation of it.

He steps closer to the door and makes a fist against the metal. He rears back and strikes. The metal reverberates with a tooth-aching clang. Pain blossoms through his knuckles as it never would in reality. Michael ignores the discomfort and strikes again.

A small but noticeable dent has appeared. Michael’s reddened hand throbs. He strikes. The dent deepens ever so slightly. The skin of his third knuckle splits. He strikes. A small, bloody imprint is left behind.

Trapped in a dead end, steadily mutilating himself in the pursuit of a single-minded goal, Michael feels strangely at home. After all, he was born to thrive in deprivation, to fight and struggle and sacrifice with little thought of reward or catharsis. Stripped of his temporary victory and arrogant complacency, Michael realizes with wry chagrin that he has returned to the true core of his being. And he must never lose sight of it again.

He strikes.

A gentle knocking begins to drum a steady rhythm in Dean’s head, each beat a little louder than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to my first fanfic! Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> There's definitely a lot more I could've (and maybe should've) included, most significantly Michael's anger at God, but that would have shifted the focus away from what I was most interested in exploring. This piece was largely an exercise in quantifying the abstract concept of angelic possession, to maybe provide more context into why Michael canonically fought so hard to keep his perfect vessel. I might have written him a bit more infatuated than he probably is in the show, but hey, could you blame him?

**Author's Note:**

> Yup, I said it. Dean's eyes are hazel. Fight me.
> 
> There's definitely a lot more I could've (and maybe should've) included, most significantly Michael's anger at God, but that would have shifted the focus away from what I was most interested in exploring. This piece was largely an exercise in quantifying the abstract concept of angelic possession, to maybe provide more context into why Michael canonically fought so hard to keep his perfect vessel. I might have written him a bit more infatuated than he probably is in the show, but hey, could you blame him?
> 
> Here's to my first fanfic! Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
